


Nightshade

by stardropdream



Category: Tsubasa: Reservoir Chronicle
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-23
Updated: 2013-02-23
Packaged: 2017-12-03 09:20:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,013
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/696732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stardropdream/pseuds/stardropdream
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kamui is hungry.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nightshade

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on LJ September 3, 2010.

  
He moves through the dark night as he has become accustomed, no noise and leaving no sign of his presence behind. The Tokyo night is unforgiving, but when it rains, it is easier to move. So long as he keeps the coat on, there is no fear of pain (and even if he was without it, he, at least, would heal). He is on the hunt. He has gone far too long without feeding, and the stragglers from foreign territories would be his prey—as they always were.  
  
He can smell the human on the air, a wayward soul that will never make it back to his shelter. By the time Kamui reaches the human, he will be scarred and pained from the rain—and Kamui can smell his blood on the air. He moves swiftly, stray slabs of debris and calcite encrusted pebbles across the wasteland do not even shift as he darts past, his body light and cutting through the air.  
  
He descends upon his prey and the victim doesn’t even cry out as Kamui slams him to the ground, his body burned from the acid and bleeding slowly onto the sandy dirt. Kamui avoids the open wounds—does not wish for the taste of acid—and sinks his fangs into the human’s neck before the human can so much as cry out. He struggles, but he is weak, and eventually he becomes docile, dormant, as Kamui drinks.   
  
Kamui cradles the man’s head harshly as he drinks, his fangs tearing through flesh and tongue pressing against the wounds he creates, drinking greedily, intending to drink the human dry.   
  
His eyes are hooded and burning a deep gold, his claws extending only slightly to pierce the soft flesh, to keep him skewered and tethered to the ground, unable to escape even if he had the strength. Kamui, as always, is victorious.   
  
At least, that is, until he feels something slam into the side of his head. He cries out, sharply, as his head bursts into color and pain and he sprawls back and away from the human. His victim is dead now, with one final heave of jittering lungs. He watches him deflate, listens to the heart stutter and still. He can still smell the blood, still desires that blood. He is still hungry.  
  
He turns angry golden eyes to the source of his new headache, and, really, shouldn’t have been surprised to see the tower’s leader standing there, the rain pattering off his shoulders, coat resilient to the erosion. He isn’t smiling at Kamui as he stands there, one arm hanging at his side, holding a thick slab of Tokyo debris. The other hand is in his pocket, wrapped around the trigger of his gun, undoubtedly, ready to fire it.  
  
Kamui hisses at him, quietly, eyes flaming gold as he moves from his crouch to his full height, his cloak billowing around him.  
  
“You,” he hisses.  
  
Fuuma watches him, and says nothing. There is no shift in his expression. Then he takes a step towards him, putting himself between Kamui and the dead human.  
  
“Was he yours?” Kamui asks.  
  
Fuuma shakes his head. “I don’t know him.”  
  
Kamui can feel it, a small drizzle of blood in his hair before the wound closes up and the throbbing pain of an unexpected slab of rock to the side of his head disappears. Healed. Kamui narrows his eyes, lets his claws elongate under his cloak, prepared to kill this human, too, if need be—  
  
He is so hungry.  
  
“You’re in my territory, Kamui,” Fuuma says, still not smiling—and it’s so strange not to see him smiling, when it’s all he ever does—and watching him. “It’s strange to see you so far from your own building. Why?”  
  
“That’s none of your concern,” Kamui snaps.  
  
Fuuma’s eyes shift to the corpse behind him, and then quickly returns it to Kamui. “Hunting?”  
  
Kamui’s eyes narrow further and he takes a threatening step towards Fuuma.   
  
But Fuuma, it would seem, is prepared for him, because he launches forward, smashing the slab of rock against Kamui’s head again so that Kamui sprawls to the ground, and Fuuma is after him, kneeling over him, hand in his hair and forcing his face up.   
  
“Don’t drink from them.”  
  
Kamui is about to bite out a string of insults, to struggle away and finally be done with this stupid, foolish human.  
  
But instead, Fuuma’s hold in his hair tightens, forces him up closer. “Drink from me.”  
  
“What—”  
  
This close, he can hear the throb of Fuuma’s blood, the pulse and beat of his heart and it’s almost intoxicating. He tries to pull away, but Fuuma will not.  
  
And then slowly, Fuuma finally smiles. “From now on, drink from me. Don’t waste your time with others.”  
  
Kamui balks. “You’re insane.”  
  
The fingers in his hair loosen, stroke his hair, before wrapping in the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping him close. Kamui does not know what to do with his hands—whether he should push or pull Fuuma.   
  
Perhaps, in the end, it is just the scent of blood on the air—  
  
The intoxication of this man’s smile—  
  
Kamui’s eyes flare open, knows they are still burning gold.  
  
Fuuma’s smile is just as burning. “Hm?”  
  
“You’re insane,” Kamui says again.  
  
“And so are you, if you really plan to turn down a willing meal.”  
  
Kamui hisses something under his breath and flickers his eyes up to Fuuma’s. Fuuma’s eyes close and he gives him a wide smile.   
  
“Things are more exciting this way,” Fuuma says. “Won’t you drink from me, and no one else?”  
  
Kamui is silent for a moment, and then he hisses, pushing against Fuuma until Fuuma is on his back. Fuuma stares up at him, does not protest as Kamui moves over him, uses his cloak to shield the rain from falling on the man’s face, and bends his head, mouth pressing against Fuuma’s neck.   
  
His fangs tear through the skin of his neck, and he tastes the blood—and he is finally, finally satisfied.


End file.
